Feminism

This is a long one to illustrate a single point about "fuckboys" and why I am perpetually single... Bear with me.

I was raised in a misogynistic household. Sure, my father taught me how to throw a ball, and work on cars, and he made sure that I had dreams...as long as my dreams included being a wife. Because, through all the lessons he taught me, it always remained clear: a woman's place was in the home.

As we would work on the car, he would say little things that I would smile and nod at, because I was too young to truly understand the meaning of them.

"We'll teach you how to change your own oil, so you can take care of yourself until a husband comes along."

"You need to know how to change your tire, just in case it blows out when your husband isn't with you."

I didn't understand what he meant, only that he wanted his daughter to know how to take care of herself. Best father ever!

As I got older, and got into my first serious relationship, my father stopped teaching me things.

"You have your boyfriend, now. You don't need to know that."

I was hurt by it, because I only saw that my dad didn't want to spend time with me.

I didn't get it. My father, for as good a man as he was, was a misogynist. I carried those values with me through a lot of my social interactions. I never expressed my opinion around boys at school, but would talk animatedly with other girls. Even now, as a 30-year-old woman, I have a hard time speaking up, sometimes. I'm getting better.

A man sent me a message on a dating site, the other day, so I checked out his profile. As soon as I saw that he was still married, I sent him a simple message...well, here, I'll let you read the exchange for yourself:

The test he is referring to is a joke I have at the beginning of my profile. It states that there will be a test afterwards, because my profile is...basically a novel. His response to my "You're married." message seems pretty innocuous, but I've been down this road before.

Whoa. Just...whoa, dude.

That came out of left field. He was interested in me, until I turned him down flat. It took me several tries to get the message worded correctly, too. I am very careful when I turn men down, because of this reason. I hate being flat-out insulted because men can't handle the idea that a woman doesn't want to talk to them. My first thought was, "Hey, that hurt." Then, I was angry. I am fed up with these little boys who think that women are here to serve them. I usually don't respond to these types of messages, but this time:

This time I spoke up. I tried to stay as civil as possible, but that didn't last long. I am so boiled-over with anger at men that I cannot continue to sit on the wall and not say anything. This time, I stand up. This time, my voice will be the loudest one in the room.

Women deserve to be able to have a normal exchange with someone, without fear that they are going to be personally insulted, the second their opinion doesn't line up with the male's. Women deserve the same respect as men, period. We deserve to be heard, and listened to.

No, I'm not a feminazi. I'm not a bitch. I'm not any of those other colorful words which have been thrown my way. I am a woman, and a human being, and I deserve respect. I deserve to have the same voice as a man's, and I deserve to have my opinion valued. I don't deserve to be called fat or ugly, just because I didn't swoon when a man spoke to me.

I deserve to be treated like a fucking human being, because that's what I am!

You don't have to be nice to me, or any other woman, just don't be an asshole.

It's really not that hard to not be an asshole.

Women Are Human

Jesus I'm in a mood, today.

I can't seem to shake this feeling of irritability, and I don't know exactly what triggered it.

I saw a post on Tumblr, this morning that caused me great rage. I saw a post on Facebook that made me sick to my stomach. Maybe today just isn't the day for social media. Maybe today is one of those days I should have just stayed in bed.

I need to write, though, or I may just snap.

First off, if you disagree with anything I say in this post, you can kindly fuck off. Yes. For this post, I am taking a stand. Either you agree with me, or you're wrong. Period.

Rape victims.

Are.

Never.

To.

Blame.

There is no reason or situation where the phrase, "Well, if you were more careful, this wouldn't have happened." is acceptable. NO!

"If you would wear more modest clothing, you wouldn't have gotten raped."

"Maybe you should put more clothes on!"

"Stop wearing tight pants!"

"Damn, baby, you look so good, I could rape you."

The fury I am feeling is all-consuming.

How dare you make the victim of a violent attack feel guilty?

How dare you make a woman feel guilty for wearing what she feels comfortable in?

How dare you use that word as a synonym for sex?

How dare you?

The Rape Culture is sickening. It's purely disgusting. Those of you who condone this type of behavior are no better than the predators themselves. Those of you who tell women to carry mace to protect themselves, because, well, "men are just men" are fucking sick.

It isn't just full-grown women who are taught that they are always responsible for their safety, and if they get hurt, then they are to blame...at least a little bit.

Little girls are being told that their pants, or their dresses, or their shirts are "inappropriate" because they distract boys, or because there are predators out there who will take advantage of the way they're dressed.

We're standing aside and allowing people to fill our daughters and nieces with fear, over their clothing choices. We're making them self-conscious from a very young age, and it saddens me. These little girls become more fashion-oriented, than science or math oriented, all because of some off-hand comment that adults made.

"Is this dress good enough?"

"Are these pants too tight?"

..."Will I be hurt if I wear this?"

Those are the questions our daughters are asking in the mornings, instead of:

"Do I have my homework done?"

"Is there going to be a test today?"

"Should I study on the bus, just in case?"

Why are we allowing this to go on?

We need to stop making little girls, and women, feel like the only important thing about them is how they look. This includes the "slut shaming" and putting down women for being too fat, or too skinny, or too tall, or too short, or too blonde, or not blonde enough. Focus on what's important. Focus on the kind of people they will be when they grow up.

Do you want your daughter to keep her opinions to herself, in front of men, because she's afraid of being rejected?

Do you want your niece to feel guilty because a predator attacked her?

Do you want your mother to be more concerned with her new tube of lipstick than her heart medicine? (My mother...)

No. Of course you don't. You want them to be treated with respect, not because they're women, but because they earned that respect by never backing down, by standing up for their beliefs, and by being human.

It's really that simple.

Women are just as human as men.

We all deserve the same treatment.

Pets: Part Two

Heartbreak




I've delayed posting this one, for a while now. I think it's about time to share the story of three baby kittens who touched my heart in a profound way, while they were on this Earth. Here goes:

My sister and I have decided to split the responsibility of hand-rearing three abandoned feral kittens. Apparently, Mama Kitty had six, and left these three behind. It's understandable, since she's fighting to feed herself. Six babies would have overwhelmed her. It's the nature of the beast, and it sucks, but that's where awesome rescues come in, and volunteers like us step up!

I'm honored to get the chance to try and save these little guys' lives, and raise them to be awesome house-cats!

At the moment, I'm sleep-deprived, irritable, and starting to wonder if it was such a good idea...and it's only been ONE DAY!

(I'm really not cut out for this "Mom" thing...)

The last 24-hours of my life:

Yesterday, March 22, 2014

HOUR ONE! (Roughly 16:00, or 4 P.M.)

I'm really, really excited! I haven't bottle-fed a kitten for almost a decade, but I'm sure it's just like riding a bike, right? ...er...right??

Alright...

"Step one: put formula in bottle." ..alright easy enough.
"Step two: warm formula." ..ok...? how? Do I microwave the bottle? NO! Bad. Uh...OH! OH! Boil water in the microwave, and place the bottle inside the water! I. Am. A. Genius!
"Step three: test temperature of formu-" OW! SHIT, THAT'S HOT! *glare*
*amended* "Step three-and-a-half: let formula cool."...
"Step four: FEED THE KITTENS!!" ...alright...um...open up! Open...UP! Um...hmm...please open up? *quickly put bottle in kitten's mouth mid-squeak* HA! I win. :P

HOUR TWO!

Repeat all steps from hour one, for two more kittens...then the fun part!

"Rub the genitalia of the kittens so they can poop and pee."...ewwww!

*rub rub rub* OH! Oh, GOD! How much did you eat?! *fights back gag* Oh, geez....oh, geez...oh, geez!
Ew! Ew! ...Oh, good, you're done! NEXT!

The next two kittens weren't as "backed-up" so there was far less gagging and cringing. Hey! Maybe I'm getting the hang of this! Place kittens back in warm box and relax for a minute!

HOUR FOUR!

Whoa, wait, what? It's already been two hours? It's time for another feeding...NOW? Gosh, can't I just take a breather?

*kitten screaming from within the shoe box*

... apparently not...

Warm formula, test temperature, let formula cool, feed...
erm...feed?
Please, may I feed you?
I promise you want this!
No, don't squirm!
HEY! Careful!
I'm going to drop you!
*slip bottle into kitten's mouth, mid-scream* (Wait, is that my scream, or his...?)
HA! I win, again! BOOYAH!

Help kitties go potty, again. It's far less gross, this time! Hooray for small victories!

HOUR SIX-AND-A-HALF! (roughly 22:30)

Wait...hey! How did the second feeding take longer than the first? I thought it went much smoother than that train-wreck of a first one!

Whatever...

Warm formula, test formuuuuu- *yaawwwnnnn* Oh, my...-la. That was a good one. Eye-watering, jaw-cracking...the whole works! Yup! Great yawn!

Feed- WAIT! Let it cool first, dummy!...*whistles* Sorry, little buddy. Almost scorched you, there...

...

*hums "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts!"*

...

"...some as big as your head!"

Alright! Feed kittens! Aww...look at them! They're so adorable! They're finally figuring out this whole bottle thing!




.........................................................................................


This went on, pretty much around the clock for 24 hours. I dropped the kids off with my sister with the intention of getting some very-much needed sleep. I got about 4 hours of rest when my sister calls me, crying.

We'd lost the two black and white ones.

I hopped in the only car and high-tailed it to her house, to console her. I've been here, before. Losing babies is horrible. You always have that niggling feeling in the back of your mind that you did something wrong; that somehow, you killed them. She didn't do anything wrong, of course, but that's how it feels.

I was able to calm her down, and after a failed attempt at kitten CPR, we had her dad bury them. He even gave them a little grave marker, which was very touching.

Once the sorrow had abated, we both knew that we had to pour whatever was left of our hearts into the last remaining kitten...and we did.

I took over the care, the next morning, and spent the next twelve hours, or so, holding the baby, and coming up with a more efficient feeding method. He was the smallest and weakest of the three, and he was the survivor. I named him Ash.

I knew, in my mind, that the odds were stacked against him. He likely didn't get the colostrum (first milk) from his momma, so his immune system was very susceptible to disease and infection. I knew there was a damn good chance he wouldn't make it. Against my better judgement, I named him anyway. That's all it took. He had a name. He was in my heart.

He was eating like crazy, and I was able to get him to use the bathroom, after some coaxing and a tip from a local veterinarian. He was warm and he was active, and he seemed to be doing great!

Then, the next night, when I dropped him off at my sister's house, I noticed that he was acting strangely. He was bending his neck all the way back until his head was touching his shoulders. My heat sank. That's the same thing the other babies were doing, just a few hours before they passed over to Rainbow Bridge. I was staying on the couch at my sister's house, that night, because I wanted her to be completely comfortable with the new feeding method that he had taken to.

I got about 4 hours of sleep that night.

I took him back to my house that morning, fed him, bathroomed him, and got him warm. I was letting him rest in the box when I heard this pitiful little meow come from him. It sounded so weak. I peered inside and Ash was doing the neck arching thing again. I picked him up and he took his last big breath in my hands. I tried to resuscitate him, to no avail.

I cried and held him closely. Then, I took him to my sister's to be buried with his siblings.

It's heartbreaking to lose the little ones, especially because it's so easy to become attached to them. This isn't the first time I've seen newborn kittens die, but it was the first time it hit me so hard. This little 6-day-old baby wormed his way into my heart. I bonded with him, and he with me, I think. When he'd squeak, I'd hold him close to my chest, and he'd calm down. I talked to him, even though he probably couldn't hear me. I'd watch him sleep in his little shoe box.

The only solace I have from this whole experience, is that we gave that little guys 4 more days of full-bellies, and warm beds, than they would have had, if we hadn't volunteered to care for them. Ash and his littermates didn't die lonely and cold. They went out of this world warm and loved.

Times like this make me question my decision to become a Veterinary Assistant. How can I possibly be able to handle this kind of heart-break for the rest of my life? Am I really cut out for this? Yes. I just have to remind myself of the animals that I have helped save. My sister and I have taken in numerous stray and lost dogs, and reunited them with their families, over the last 10 years, or more. I remember bringing home stray animals when I was a kid. This is what I was meant to do. It's my calling.

Ash, and his story, will remain with me for the rest of my life. He will serve as my inspiration to continue to push through the pain and sorrow, to keep trying my hardest to save the lives of animals, to keep bringing strays into my home and showing them love and compassion.

Because of Ash, I will give every animal the opportunity to feel loved, and warm, and safe, before they leave this planet...

That's what they all deserve.

Pets: Part One

This is a new one for me, ironically. When I consider how much my pets rule my life, I'm shocked I haven't written more about the treatment and care of our pets. Really! I have 4 cats, a German Shepherd, and my sister and I are forever picking up and rehoming strays. So, now that I've had an epiphany, with the help of said sister, I am going to start a series of blog posts about pets. I have no clue how many "Parts" this series is going to be broken up into...10? 15? ...108? Who knows?!

These pet posts will be available at: http://simplyfurry.blogspot.com/ as well as here on my personal blog.

Aaaaand, here we go:

Topic #1: PETS ARE FOREVER!

If you commit yourself to doing hours of research, driving to the pet store, breeder, or local shelter, paying the adoption/purchase fee, buying food, beds, toys, tanks, filters, heat lamps, I.D. tags, and whatever else your animal requires, you're committing yourself to caring for an animal for the rest of its natural life.

Pets are not status symbols. They're not a method to "keep up with the Joneses." They're not toys. They're not anniversary gifts. They're not temporary distractions from heartache. They're not lawn ornaments.

They are a life-time commitment. Period.

With this commitment comes a lot of responsibility. You know what responsibility is, if you're over the age of ten. Your parents (if they were worth their salt), your teachers, your pastor, they all tried to teach you how to be responsible for your decisions, how to own up and follow-through with your commitments. They wanted you to be a person whose word is solid and reliable. Don't forget that when you bring an animal into your home.

Dogs typically live between 7 and 15 years, cats can be as old as 20, birds and turtles/tortoises live for decades! That's YEARS of costly vet visits, thousands of pounds of food, gallons upon gallons of water, millions of little pet turds to clean up, hundreds of training hours, and every drop of blood, sweat, and tears that you're capable of shedding.

I think you get the point I'm trying to make, especially if you're an animal lover like myself.

I decided that this post would be the first one, because this is the one that hits closest to home...

My roommates/landlords have an affinity for trying to one-up, people. Their friends get a new car, they get one a year newer. New TV at the neighbor's? Well, theirs is 3-inches bigger! Et cetera! A little competition among friends is good, and to be completely honest, it's just FUN! However, when you bring that competition and desire to be better than your friends, into your choice to get a pet, you...well, you just plain piss me off!

Case in point: My Leonidis, the pain-in-the-ass German Shepherd.

My landlords got Leo (then short for Leonardo) because their coworkers got a GSD puppy, and "Aw, look how cute it is!"

*sigh*

German Shepherds are not a lazy man's dog. Believe me, this dog is no exception!

This adorable pup (now nearly two years old) came into a house with a spoiled Pomeranian (don't even get me started with that thing...), and two cats, not including my clutch of cats that live in my trailer with me. My roommates' hearts were in the right place, but they just plain didn't have the patience or drive to give this dog what he needed, at an early age, to make him a well-balanced adult. I told them that they needed to train him, because they kept getting upset that he was pooping in the house, or chewing on cords/shoes/the couch. I told them that GSDs need a lot of maintenance, and training, or they go a little...bonkers...yeah, that's a good word!

Their response?

"We'll deal with it later."

REALLY RIGHT NOW?!

Well, as you have probably figured out, "later" never came. Leo's behavior got worse, because he was never taught what not to do, or how to act. He was never socialized with other dogs, or people. Eventually, they decided that they couldn't "deal with him" because he was "dangerous". (He wasn't dangerous. Just bored out of his skull.) He ran over their grandkid, he nipped, he jumped on people, he destroyed everything he could get his teeth on; he was just...bonkers. So, they decided to get rid of him.

I just...

Grrr...

My sister and I said, "No, you're not!"

She decided to take him in, and help him. He needed a lot of it. The only problem with her having him was that she was working 12-hour days, and the roommates she had weren't exactly...responsible enough for her to trust to take care of him when she wasn't there, so he continued with the destructive behavior, even though he did make a vast improvement. When she was home, he was an angel, but he reverted as soon as she left. It was an unhealthy cycle that eventually stressed them both out. Then, he jumped into her neighbor's yard, one day, and her neighbor threatened to shoot Leo. That went over like a ton of bricks, and Leo came back here, under my care.

I have been his official owner, now, for about 3 months and he is a completely different dog. He gets regular exercise. He has rules and boundaries, and he is disciplined when he's being a dick. He's bitten me, a couple times, because he was never properly socialized, he's destroyed (and I mean d-e-s-t-r-o-y-e-d) some of my things. He's chased my cats. He's done all kinds of things that people usually send their pets to the pound for.

I didn't.

I stuck with him, and I pushed through the frustration and the tears, and even the blood, and one day it just clicked. We had a bond, and I was the pack leader. It wasn't easy, and I still consider him a "work in progress", but I've seen enough of a change in him to be able to see that light at the end of the tunnel. I was exhausted and sore, and frustrated beyond belief for the first couple weeks, but I stuck to my guns, and I didn't give him an inch, and now the jumping has all but stopped, the chewing only happens when he doesn't get his daily run, the charging after kids/other dogs/cats has slowed (with the exception of my orange tabby, with whom Leo likes to play tag...there is nothing funnier than an 8-pound-cat chasing a 100-pound-dog around the yard).

That's what I'm trying to tell you people who like to pick up and dump animals left-and-right. To those of you who get rid of animals because they destroyed your favorite shoes, or because they grew out of being "cute, or because you're simply bored with them, or because they got diarrhea on your new carpet, or because you had a baby. The animals only act out because you let them. Period.

If you cannot take control of a lesser-species, how the hell do you expect to be successful as a manager, or a parent?

...?

Seriously, though, if you can't control your dog, how the hell are you going to control a group of humans who are probably smarter than you?

Yes that was harsh. Yes, I probably insulted you. No, I don't care.

When it comes down to the choice between a human's feelings and an animal's well-being, I will side with the animal. Every. Time.

Honor your commitment to your four-, two-, no-legged pets.

Yes, there are times when it is in the best interest of the animal that you give up ownership to somebody who is more capable of caring for them. But none of those reasons are ever because you WANT to. Those reasons only come out of need, and those reasons will break your heart, every time.

I've had to rehome pets in my lifetime, because I was homeless, or because my Big Boy (my oldest tabby) was getting attacked. I rehomed a pitbull, because I was living with people who wanted to start a dog-fighting ring, and I had nowhere else to live. I have never rehomed an animal because they were an inconvenience. And, I have cried, as each one of those animals walked out my front door for the last time.

If it doesn't break your heart to "get rid" of them, then don't get rid of them. Find another way to fix whatever problem you're having with them. Change your own routine. Do whatever you possibly can to care for them, and then some, because that's what you signed up for.

Don't back out of the contract because of a little bit of adversity. Cleaning diarrhea out of the carpeting, replacing chewed up shoes, repairing window screens and, yes, even whole doors, are all small potatoes when you consider that no matter how shitty your day was, no matter how many people screamed at you, or how worthless the outside world made you feel, to that animal, you are the one. You are it. You are literally their whole world and they rely on you for their food, their shelter, their drink of water. They don't play unless they play with you. They greet you at the door with open hearts and wagging tails, and lots of kitty purrs, in my case. You're their best-friend, and they will never, ever turn their back on you for anything, ever...

Even when you turn your back on them.

Police Officers: Heroes in Blue, or Villains with Guns?

I want to start this one off by redirecting you to a local news page that posted a video of a incident that occurred last year. I want you to especially concentrate on the comments section of that video. It is...amazing, to say the least.

https://www.facebook.com/KOAA/posts/10203286864874680

Now, I want to direct your attention to my comment; I so very badly wanted to continue my rant, but I decided to turn it into a blog discussion, instead. Yes, I said "discussion". I want to hear from my readers, whomever you are, whether you agree or not. Do you think the officer did the right thing?

For a different perspective, here's another link:
http://www.centredaily.com/2014/03/04/4066904/video-albuquerque-officer-shot.html

This article states, "Ortega is not seen holding a gun in the video...".

Read more here: http://www.centredaily.com/2014/03/04/4066904/video-albuquerque-officer-shot.html#storylink=cpy:

That is false. You can clearly see him toss the firearm over the van as he runs.

This is the comment I left on my local News crew's Facebook post about this incident, after reading through the nearly 100 comments:

"Good lord. A lot of hostility toward cops in this thread. I truly hope that none of you ever needs help from the police...wow.

The being said, I absolutely think the officer did the right thing in this instance. He, and other officers, are trained to "Protect and Serve", and to enforce the law. This man BROKE several laws and put people's lives in danger...

 If the officer would have let this man go, and he would have been allowed to continue committing crimes, the argument would be that the officer was "negligent". Since he was shot and taken into custody, the officer is suddenly deemed "overzealous"? Really???

Are there crooked cops, and egomaniacs behind the badge? Absolutely, just as there are egomaniacs behind the keyboard (as this comment thread proves).

I absolutely cannot stand this attitude the public takes toward the men and women who protect us. They put on vests and load their weapons, and keep *your* children safe, all while praying to make it home to *theirs*. It's amazing how one group of people can be, simultaneously, the heroes AND the villains...how does that work?"

I'd love to elaborate upon that, further. Here is my full opinion of the police: They are heroes. Period.

These are men and women who put their lives on the line to help complete strangers through difficult times. They dry the tears of abused and battered women. They provide teddy bears to children who have just watched their house burn down. They stop and help stranded motorists along-side busy, treacherous roads. They are out in the elements 365 days a year. No matter what is going on in their personal lives, no matter how bad the weather is, how icy the roads are, how bad that flu is kicking their asses, how deep the flood-waters are...they are there, with the courage to help their community.

They are not teddy bears, themselves. They are armed public servants. They protect their community with deadly force when it is required. When the wolf comes howling at your door, you call the police, because simply the thought of someone coming to your rescue is comforting. They are sheepdogs, overlooking their flock, because they really, truly, just want you to be safe. They want your children to be able to play in the yard without fear of getting kidnapped. They want you to walk to the corner store without fear that you are going to get killed.

Yet, somehow, somewhere along the road, they've become Villains; arch enemies of the people. Children in elementary schools are being taught to fear and loathe the police, by their (no doubt) criminal parents. They are being taught to hate the very people who have the means to help them.

Whaaaa???

I just...

Wow.

Yes, officers sometimes make mistakes. They are human. I truly believe, however, that in the heat of any potentially scary moment, the first instinct is usually the best decision. Could the officer have done something differently? No. In that moment, he did what he believed was the absolute best thing: he stopped a dangerous criminal from going loose, back into society, the quickest way he could. He shot him.

Now, six months later, the media has gotten hold of the tape, and are starting to sling adjectives around. They are calling the man dangerous, "trigger-happy", negligent, overzealous...etc...

(I have to stop here. I need a deep breath, or I'm going to explode...)

It's easy to look back at any situation, from the comfort of an office chair, and say, "That could have been handled more efficiently." However, until you've been placed in the exact scenario, you can never know what that officer was thinking, or feeling, in the seconds before he pulled the trigger and stopped a dangerous fugitive in his tracks.

It's easy to place blame on the officers, because to be frank, officers are easy marks. It's easy to blame them for all the things that have gone poorly in your life:

Late for work? "Damn cop should have just let me go. He didn't *have* to stop me. Surely there are worse things out there than speeders!"

Find yourself landed in a jail cell? "Fuckin' PIG! He could have just let me go! Surely there are worse things out there than drunks."

Got a ticket:? "Jesus Christ! Why did that asshole have to stop me? It's only a headlight!"

...it's easy to redirect blame. It's easy NOT to take responsibility for our own actions. Cops are easy to hate, simply because of the nature of the job. They, in the very basest sense, are professional scolders. Whenever you do something wrong, and get caught, there they are in all their uniformed glory to tell you exactly what you did, and make you pay for it. Nobody likes being scolded, and nobody likes being disciplined.

What nobody considers is what the police officers have seen earlier in the shift, what they've gone through in their careers that make them so hardened, so unlikely to "let things slide."

The public doesn't see the dead pedestrian, caused by a car going too fast to stop at the red light.

We don't see the carnage of a fatal accident, where the driver was drunk; the child who is now parent-less.

We don't see the wife-beater who got away, simply because the license plate lights on his car were out.

We just don't SEE...

I get so very pissed off at people when they trash-talk the police. Perhaps it's because I have friends who are officers, or perhaps it's because my uncle was a Deputy for a short time...or maybe it's just because I was raised right.

Don't take me the wrong way. I'm not an angel. I have my fair share of speeding tickets. I have a misdemeanor on my record. You know why? Because I screwed up. Me. Not them. I am pissed at myself for doing something stupid, not them for doing their jobs...

Until we are thrust into the same situations that the men and women in blue deal with, everyday, for 20 years or more, we cannot understand the split-second decisions they make. Until we walk in their shoes, we cannot judge them for their mistakes. Until we wear the badge, we should leave the Kangaroos out of the Courts.

Day two

So, after my little mental breakdown last night, I broke down and bought a pack of cigarettes with the last of my change.

Yeah.

I'm still quitting, but I've decided to take baby steps. I smoked one before bed, after I removed the nicotine patch, and I smoked one this morning, before I put a new patch on. (I can't wear nicotine patches for 24 hours because they give me nasty, vivid, wake-up-screaming nightmares.)

It's helped. I'm less jittery, and my mind is more calm than it was yesterday. Christ that sucked, so much. I'm surprised I got to sleep, at all. It felt like my mind was being invaded by a thousand urges, and not one of them were my own. Never want to experience that again, thanks!

I've had a couple really strong cravings, today, and I've "treated" those with a few drags off a cigarette; just enough to mellow the urge, and take the edge off. The little "nic-fits" I let slide. Those I can talk myself out of, or distract myself from. I'm using the nic-fits to clean. I get a craving, I start cleaning. There's one thing I hate worse than cigarette cravings and that's washing windows. It's a punishment, and a reward, all at once. At least my house will be spotless by the time this is all over.

I'm going to start tomorrow off by going outside and smoking. Once my ashtray is removed from sight, and smell, I think I'll have less of an urge to smoke. It's pretty cold out, this time of year, at 5,000 ft above sea level. That should be a deterrent all on its own. Besides, my orange cat hates smoke, so I'll be doing him a favor, too.

I actually felt really guilty when the clerk handed me that pack of cigarettes; as if I was letting myself down, somehow. Once I sat back and actually thought about it, the reason I got that pack is because I was discouraged. I know that if I had had another day like yesterday, I would have given up and gone back to smoking a pack per day. I know myself well enough to know that if something makes me miserable, I stop doing it.

I'm crossing my fingers that I'm able to follow through, this time. Blogging about it is actually helpful, so I'll keep doing that. I've also upped my caffeine intake, so that will help with the ADD symptoms. It's hard to drink coffee without smoking a cigarette, though, so that's a hurdle all its own.

Day two, half-way over; 12 more to go!

(14 days is the time-frame most psychologists give for starting new habits, and that's the way I'm looking at it. I'm not breaking an old habit, I'm starting a new one.)

Thank You for NOT Smoking

Does anybody have a drill I can borrow, to bore a hole in my head, and let the minions out?

Christ this sucks.

I have Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). I was actually diagnosed when I was very young, about 5 or 6, so it's not just "Oh Shiny Syndrome", though I have that too!

I've noticed a slight increase in my symptoms over the past year. I'm having more problems focusing on a task, but when I do finally focus, it's getting harder for me to pull myself away from it than it used to be. I daze off into La La Land, more often, and it's harder to track conversations. I get burned out, more easily, by menial, repetitive tasks, so keeping a job is extremely difficult. It's really hard to get me to do anything I don't have an interest in. However, if I find a task that I find stimulating, I spend "too much" time doing it...like the 6 hours I spent reorganizing the candy display at my most-recent retail job. Yeah, boss-lady was *not* happy!

One of those misunderstood things about ADD is that Hyper-Focus is actually a very popular symptom, as is inability to follow directions in the order they were given.

For example, if you suspect that your child has ADD (doubtful; s/he's probably just being a kid), ask them to do a series of tasks: clean your room, take a shower, brush your teeth, change into your pajamas. If they do everything in order, and completely, they're aliens. That's a joke. I digress...

If, when you check on your kiddo, they have their PJ bottoms on, before the shower, and they're standing in the middle of their still-messy room, with a toothbrush in their mouth, looking confused, they might just have ADD. Note that I'm not in any way a medical professional, so...y'know, be a responsible parent and take your kid to the doctor, instead of taking the word of some random blogger...just sayin'.

ADD is treated with stimulants. I don't believe in taking a pill for any minor disorder that has to do with the mind. I believe that the mind is it's own most powerful medicine. (There's exceptions...just overall...)

Mind over matter, right?

HA! Nope.

I did a lot of research as I got into middle school, and my symptoms started becoming "weird" to the other kids. I, like most other young people, just wanted to fit in, so I bottled up my urges, I bridled my impulses, and I kept my mouth shut. Coincidentally, I had a lot of headaches when I was a teenager, and I tended to explode in fits of temporary psychosis...just ask my mother. I was fucking crazy.

I learned that caffeine is a great treatment for mild ADD, which is what I consider myself having; haven't been back to a doctor to check the "severity", ever, so...I take my word for it. After all, I know me best, right? Meh, in theory.

So, I started drinking coffee when I was 11. Yup. I've been a coffee-drinker, ever since. Coffee, especially that which is high in caffeine, like espresso, is...awesome. Just awesome. I love it. It helps bring me back down to Earth, and it quiets the thoughts in my head. It also stops that weird tingly feeling in my hands, and keeps me from fidgeting as much as I normally would...

SO! Now that we're done with the back-story...

Nicotine is also a stimulant.

Ain't that just the shit.

I've decided to quit smoking.

For the past, oh, 15 years or so, I've been a smoker. I've come to the conclusion (which may be a bit premature, considering this is my first day, but...) that I have been treating my ADD with two stimulants, over the years, not just caffeine. The blend of coffee and cigarettes has kept the worst of my symptoms tampered down.

Today has been brutal. I can't concentrate on anything. I feel like I'm half-asleep from the nicotine withdrawals, but my mind is going 9000 miles per hour. I can't get my leg to stop shaking, and my hands are in a desperate search for something to mess with. There's a strong pressure right behind my eyes, I keep getting short, but sharp, headaches, and my thoughts are jumbled and practically incoherent, not to mention LOUD!

Now, despite the fact that I want to drill a hole in my head to vent the pressure, I am still determined to quit smoking. If I have to double-up on the black coffee to do so, then so be it. I want my white teeth and pleasant breath back. I want the yellow stains on my fingernails to go away. I want to live to see my 60th birthday, without being on oxygen. Not to mention, that shit's expensive! Seriously, you figure I smoke a pack a day, which is roughly $5 per pack. $5 x 365 days = $1, 825 per year. Yeah! I spent two months of my minimum wage job, each year, just working for cigarettes. Yikes! What could I have spent that time and money on, instead, I wonder?

This is the end of Day One of being a non-smoker. And might I just say, this shit sucks!